


what use is money (when you need someone to hold)

by ceaseandexist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, non-au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceaseandexist/pseuds/ceaseandexist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the leaked photos of Zayn's room service sketchbook full of drawings of different animals smoking pot. </p><p>A jealous Harry wants to be Zayn's muse, but Zayn's not having any of it. He puts Harry in his place in the best possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what use is money (when you need someone to hold)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sam Smith's "Leave Your Lover"

Harry is sat very prettily on the couch, he thinks, as he tries to get Zayn’s attention without moving too much. He’s going for the same pose Rose held in Titanic when Jack drew her on the couch, his head resting on the arm of the sofa, his arms thrown haphazardly up by his head, his legs stretched long and sensuously to the other end of the couch. If Rose could be Jack’s muse, Harry doesn’t understand why he can’t be Zayn’s. 

But Zayn isn’t paying any attention to him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor facing Harry, but he only has eyes for the room service booklet that he’s using as a sketchpad. Niall is draped over Zayn’s back, feeding him compliments and offering drawing advice, but Zayn doesn’t seem to notice Niall either. Maybe Zayn is drawing Harry from memory. Maybe he’s focusing on an image of Harry stored in his mind. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t looked up at Harry once. 

He doesn’t look up either when there’s a crash from the other side of the room. “Are you serious, mate?” Liam complains. He sounds far away and his voice is all high the way it gets when he’s both annoyed and concerned about Louis’s total disregard for rules and regulations of proper behavior. 

Louis has been entertaining himself by playing what he calls ‘target practice’, a game which mostly involves him pelting random objects at Liam. It’s a stupid game, but it’s normally somewhat funny to watch. Today, though, Harry just sighs and fluffs up his curls. They’ve been at it for ages, and the hotel room the five of them are cooped up in is too stuffy and small. Harry’s lucky he only got hit by the crossfire once, a balled up towel to the leg. It’s much better than falling victim to a bible, which missed Liam by inches and hit Niall in the back of the head. Louis had to apologize by kissing the spot to make it better. Then Niall just shrugged and let Louis return to throwing things at Liam.

Harry wishes something Louis throws will hit Zayn. Maybe that would disturb Zayn long enough so Harry can see what he’s drawing. Or maybe Harry should take off his briefs, go full-frontal just like Rose. He’s dressed in just his black boxer briefs, the least amount of clothing he could get away with since the room’s window faces the street and Harry’s been warned to keep something on at all times in case the fans outside get a glimpse of anything. 

But the sofa doesn’t face the street. As long as he puts his pants back on before he gets up … 

“Don’t you dare,” Niall warns as Harry starts to shimmy out of his pants. Harry glares at him, then glares at Zayn too for good measure because Zayn’s still seemingly blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

“I’m bored,” Harry huffs as he settles back on the couch. “Someone entertain me.”

“Entertain yourself,” Niall says without looking at Harry. “I’m helping Zayn draw.”

Harry crosses his arms and frowns. “You aren’t helping,” he protests. “You suck at drawing.”

Zayn doesn’t even jump to Niall’s defense, just keeps his focus on his makeshift sketchpad and colors something in with his sharpie. Then something crashes into the back of the couch and the unmistakeable sound of shattering glass finally snaps Zayn out of his reverie. Louis freezes guiltily. 

“Oops?” he offers.

“That’s why you don’t throw fucking lamps at people,” Zayn mutters as he gets up to look at the wreckage. Zayn leaves the booklet he’s been drawing in on the floor, and Harry’s finally able to take a quick peek at it. It can’t be … it looks like the thing is full of scribblings of stupid animals smoking stupid joints. Zayn could have been drawing a masterpiece of Harry. He was perfectly posed! But no. Zayn chooses to draw dumb looking frogs and monkeys instead. Harry is done with this nonsense. 

“Throw as many lamps as you like,” Harry grumbles as he gets to his feet. “I’m going to find Ben. He’s much more fun than you guys.”

Nobody seems to care, though. They’re all too busy staring at the broken lamp as if that will fix it, so they don’t pay Harry any mind as he leaves. 

Harry promptly decides he won’t go find Ben. He’s not much in the mood for helping him edit footage or sharing drinks around the pool, but it serves the boys right to think he’s heading off to hang out with someone cooler than them when really, Harry just heads to his room all by his lonesome instead. It’s quiet there and the window faces the ocean so he’s allowed to be as naked as he likes. 

Zayn finds Harry there a few hours later, lets himself in somehow even though Harry could have sworn he’d bolted the door shut. 

“You done having a strop?” Zayn asks. Harry flips over and buries his face in the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Zayn. “I’ll take that as a no, then,” Zayn concludes. Harry feels the mattress dip under Zayn’s weight.

It’s been a long time since they’ve done this. Zayn is only willing while on tour because the second they’re on break, Zayn spends every possible moment with Perrie. And yeah, Harry spends all his time in LA now, but Zayn came out to LA back in February and the only time he saw Harry on that trip was when Perrie and Zayn came over together for a tour of the new house. 

So Harry’s hungry for it, wants to feel Zayn’s skin against his own for the first time in months, but he’s not about to give Zayn the satisfaction of asking for it. He scowls into the pillow instead. 

“What’s the matter, Hazza?” Zayn asks, his voice closer now. Harry can feel the heat of Zayn’s body looming behind him. “Don’t like it when I pay attention to something other than you?” 

Harry refuses to respond, even when Zayn sits down, his bum snug and warm in the curve of Harry’s lower back. Harry never fails to marvel at the way their curves fit so nicely together. They’d be like puzzle pieces if the simile wasn’t too cliche. Maybe that would be a good line for a song though … 

Harry’s snapped out of his reverie when he feels Zayn’s lips press lightly against his neck, almost a kiss but not quite. Then Zayn bites down, which downright hurts and absolutely does not make Harry more turned on than he already is. 

“I said,” Zayn murmurs, satisfaction dripping from his tone, “you done having a strop?”

Harry muffles a moan into the skin of his arm before turning his head to the side while skillfully managing to avoid looking at Zayn. “You done drawing fucking frogs?” 

“Mmm,” Zayn says, then shrugs, and Harry knows Zayn shrugged because he feels it along every inch of his back. Zayn’s so warm, smooth like Harry, and at some point Zayn took off his shirt because the only piece of fabric Harry can feel along his body is the short cut of Zayn’s briefs along Harry’s bum. It’s downright delicious the way Zayn drapes his entire body over Harry’s, as if Zayn is the one who’s bigger and he’s shielding Harry from the rest of the world. 

There’s a lick and then a short nip at the skin right behind Harry’s ear. “Been such a long time, yeah?” Zayn whispers as he smooths his hands up and down Harry’s ribs. 

“Whose fault is that?” Harry retorts, but he perks his bum up to grind against Zayn’s crotch as he says it. Zayn is already hard, and Harry wonders what did it. The sight of Harry stretched out naked in bed? The knowledge that Harry wasn’t going to sit around that room all day waiting for Zayn to notice him? Perhaps the way Harry was lying on the couch, the Titanic pose. 

Whatever it was, Harry doesn’t care, because Zayn’s sucking a lovebite into the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder, a spot Harry could easily conceal but one that they both know he won’t. He shudders when Zayn pulls back and blows across it, icy in contrast to the warmth of Zayn’s tongue. 

“Flip over, babe,” Zayn says as he hauls Harry onto his back as much as he can. Harry pouts at Zayn, who just smirks as he sits straddled over Harry’s lap. He leans in close, a wicked grin in his eyes, until Zayn is all that Harry can see, all Harry can smell — cinnamon, somehow, a scent Zayn carries even before he puts on cologne. Zayn rubs the tip of his nose against Harry’s, and it’s an apology of sorts, Harry knows, because he used to make Zayn do it when they first started doing this, way back on their first tour. Harry used to wait until Zayn was all relaxed after his orgasm, then he’d rub the tips of their noses together (“an eskimo kiss,” Harry had told Zayn) and Zayn would tell Harry it was stupid but Zayn would giggle all the same, and that giggle, that was enough for Harry. 

Zayn’s not giggling this time. He’s still smirking, though, smirking as he lets his lips brush Harry’s. “Gonna fuck you so good,” Zayn says right up against his lips, and he doesn’t even give Harry time to respond before he takes Harry’s lower lip between his own, nibbles at it, then slips his tongue into Harry’s mouth.

Harry might moan, maybe, but it’s only because it’s been so long and Zayn is just so … well, it’s just different, kissing Zayn. Consuming, like he can’t ever get enough of Zayn, like how even when their mouths start to taste like each other and Harry’s lungs burn in protest, Harry just wants more, just wants to feel the slide and twist of Zayn’s tongue against his own.

Harry’s mind is hazy so he doesn’t notice when it was that Zayn trailed a hand down to Harry’s cock, doesn’t notice it’s there, really, until Zayn wraps his hand around Harry and pumps, once, dry. It has Harry bucking into Zayn’s fist even though it’s too sensitive like that. 

“Mmph,” Harry groans as he grabs Zayn’s arm. “Dry.” 

Zayn grins, wicked, then sits back and makes a show of offering his palm to Harry for Harry to lick. Harry scrunches his nose up at Zayn, but he obeys all the same because hey, why get in the way of a good hand job?

And it is good, so good, and maybe it’s because Harry hasn’t had Zayn like this in so long, but Zayn knows how to jerk Harry off just right, fast and twisting and all static and spark until Harry feels like he can’t breathe and then slower, until Harry wants to beg Zayn to speed up. Harry does beg, sometimes, but he won’t tonight. Zayn doesn’t deserve it.

Zayn leans down to kiss Harry again and it’s starting to get overwhelming, the feeling of Zayn’s tongue against Harry’s, Zayn’s hand on Harry’s cock, Zayn’s own cock, still covered but hot and hard as Zayn grinds into Harry’s hip. Then Zayn slips a hand up and tweaks Harry’s nipple, always so betrayingly sensitive. The shock of it jolts straight to Harry’s dick and Harry gasps into Zayn’s mouth. 

Zayn pulls back, still smirking — fucking smirking — and pats Harry on the hip. “Where’s the lube?” he asks, so expectant, as if Harry would always accommodate him. Harry just frowns back at Zayn until Zayn slips the pad of his finger against Harry’s hole and Harry automatically draws his legs up and back. He’s putting himself on show for Zayn, but this is also for himself too. Very much for himself, he decides as he points to the new YSL overnight bag he got a couple weeks ago. 

Zayn tears it open, no care for designers, and Harry just waits, absentmindedly stroking himself while taking the time to enjoy Zayn’s lithe legs stepping out of his boxers at the same time as he grabs the condom and lube out of Harry’s bag. Then Zayn’s back on the bed, crawling between Harry’s legs and stroking the backs of Harry’s thighs as Harry spreads more for him. 

It would be easier if Harry was on his belly. Harry nearly says it, even, but if Zayn wants them face-to-face, who is Harry to argue? Harry could look at Zayn all day, look at the sharp cuts of his cheekbones and jaw and collarbones and hips contrasted so nicely with the softness of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the tufted hair leading down from his navel. 

Zayn is quick about it. He squeezes out a dollop of lube and only prepares Harry hastily, as if Harry still does this nearly every day, before Zayn’s rolling the condom on and using some extra slick on himself. Zayn braces himself with one hand next to Harry’s head, nothing in sight above Harry except for Zayn’s flat, barely toned chest and miles of tattoos that all say Zayn. 

When Zayn nudges inside, it’s kind of a lot, the pressure a bit painful, but the pain is good somehow, a reminder that this doesn’t happen enough. For a moment Harry can hardly breathe with the anxiety that it won’t work, that Zayn will give up and pull out and try to loosen Harry up, but then something gives and Zayn pops past the first ring of muscle and slides into Harry perfectly. Zayn settles there for a second, gives Harry just a moment to catch his breath before he pulls back and then thrusts forward, hard and deep and even-paced so he’s hitting Harry’s prostrate just right on every thrust. Harry can hear the _slapslapslap_ of it echoing in the room and he relishes it, really, as much as he can before he’s consumed by the feeling that he’s building up, up, up toward some sort of bursting point. It’s too soon, way too soon to come, so Harry wraps a hand around the base of his cock and squeezes to hold back. 

“No,” Zayn pants. He slaps Harry’s hand away, pins Harry’s wrist to the bed. “Want you to.” 

Zayn’s skin is sweaty against Harry’s, his cheeks and chest flushed and that’s all too soon too, Harry notes somewhere in his fuzzy brain. Too soon, too much, too good. Why did they ever stop doing this, Harry wonders as Zayn pushes Harry’s leg so that Harry’s knee is nearly touching his shoulder and Zayn’s cock is buried deep and full inside of Harry. Why would anyone ever stop something this good? Harry’s hips are rolling up to meet Zayn and all he wants to do is wrap a hand back around his cock so he can come because he’s so close, so nearly there that his toes are curled with the strain, but Zayn is still holding Harry’s wrist to the bed and Harry’s gripping the sheets with his other hand just for something to hold on to. 

Zayn starts to speed up and Harry can tell he’s close too because he whimpers and Zayn never whimpers, not until the very end. Harry can’t help but close his eyes as he grinds his bum as hard as he can into Zayn’s hips, helps Zayn get deeper, as deep as he can, and then he hardly registers the feel of Zayn’s hand, rough in one spot where he rests his pen, tugging on Harry’s cock fast, no messing around now, and Harry screws his eyes tight and lets go. He can feel himself shooting up his chest, but more than that, he hears Zayn whine “Fuck, Harry, fuck” and then Zayn thrusts in as hard as ever and pulses, shooting into the condom. 

It takes Harry a little while to come back to himself, to slow down his breathing, but it never takes Zayn much time to recover. He wipes Harry down with a tissue and tosses it with the condom before settling down and pulling Harry’s body into the circle of his own. Zayn’s still sweaty and Harry can’t help but lick at a damp stretch of skin in the hollow of Zayn’s throat because Harry loves it, the way the salt has a sweet tinge to it when it’s Zayn. 

“Good?” Zayn asks. He’s tired, no longer playing, and Harry likes this side of Zayn too, the one that’s always checking up on Harry.

“Mmm,” Harry agrees. “Always.” 

Zayn nods, then a slow grin spreads across his face. “You done having a strop yet?” Zayn’s eyes are closed, but Harry can imagine the glint in them perfectly well, thank you. 

Harry pinches Zayn’s hip in protest but snuggles closer all the same because there’s no way Zayn’s allowed to leave this bed. “If you’re done drawing fucking frogs smoking joints,” Harry says. 

Zayn laughs, short and quick, the kind of laugh that says you’re still there but just barely awake, so Harry doesn’t expect Zayn to say anything, just lies tracing circles into Zayn’s hip until Harry himself is nearly asleep. 

That’s when Zayn murmurs, just loud enough so Harry can hear, “the frogs look like you.”


End file.
